


Reverie

by GirlWhoWrites



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, Loki's alive but no one knows, Mistaken for dreams, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Sif needs a hug, Sifki Week, Sleeping arrangements, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlWhoWrites/pseuds/GirlWhoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This dream is different to the other ones she has had recently.</p>
<p>Loki watches over Lady Sif in the wake of TDW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverie

**Author's Note:**

> The last (so far) of my contributions to Sifki Week - the Ragnarok entry is a novel in itself, and will be posted some time in the distant future. Everything I write ends up thousands of words longer than I ever anticipate. 
> 
> This is actually a scene from a long post-TDW chapter fic that I am very slowly planning (ATTID), but I'm not sure if I'll be including it anymore. But I really liked it and wanted to share it, so here it is. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for reading!

This dream is different to the other ones she has had recently.

Those dreams are more like things pulled from her memory and are a great comfort to her when she wakes. And then she feels so old, because when did her dreams turn away from muscle under gleaming skin, of murmured promises in her ear and the delicious weight of another upon her to this?

But this is a new kind of dream, and Sif briefly wonders how old she is meant to be, lying in her bed with her cheek pillowed against her hand, blinking into the flickering light of a candle…

And there he was, sitting in the chair in the corner, watching her with that smile, that smirk that was only hers - it was sly but also softer, almost affectionate. His hair was longer, but neat, and he was once against swathed head to toe in black and green leather.

It was strange. Her dreams usually painted him younger, when his smiles were easier and the look in his eyes less brittle. In the nightmares, the ones that left her feeling utterly empty and hollow and lying awake until thin light spilled underneath her curtains, he was feral, his hair long and stringy and a sneer fixed upon his face.

And here he was, another bizarre form pulled from her own memories and loneliness.

She blinked slowly, but did not sit up. He had lit the candle upon her table, throwing strange shadows around her quarters, against his face.

“Loki?” her voice was soft, sleepy. Intimate.

A good dream, then. It had been a while between those.

He flinched at her voice, just a flicker that she doubted she would have noticed if she hadn’t wanted herself to notice.

“Hello Sif.” He stood and Sif’s eyes followed him. It had been so long, she had almost forgotten how tall he was. His voice sounded different, richer, better, that her mind usually conjured. Usually, it was muffled, the words lost to time or never imagined in the first place.

Or yelling, screaming at her. Those words were always perfectly coherent.

He approached her bed, his fingers reaching out to brush an edge of a blanket. It has already half slid from the bed, one of her legs uncovered. She always slept like that, chaos of limbs and bedding, even as a child.

He crouched down beside her, and tucked a curl of hair behind her ear.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said in a low voice, the ghost of amusement tinging the words.

“I have,” Sif agreed. “That’s why I’m having such queer dreams.”

“You should sleep,” he is stroking her arm gently, and she will never drink again, because this is worse than the screaming nightmares, where he condemns her, because this feels like it could be real in some place, that she can smell him - wine and leather and smoke - and he is touching her gently, like he used to before that damned coronation.

She nods and feels like a child being put to bed - obedient and utterly safe but resistant.

“Are you well, though?” he asked, hurriedly before shaking his head. “Of course you are. You are the ever unmovable Lady Sif.”

“Loki…” she tried to sit up, but his hands grasp her by the shoulders.

“Sleep, Sif. Sleep off the drink,” he half-orders her, as he pressed her back into her bed.

Well, she wouldn’t turn down one of those dreams, either, if he was offering.

Before she could free herself enough to drag him down with her, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, roughly.

She is just so tired, sleep hasn’t been coming easy and her bed is so soft and she knows that, at least in this muddled dream, he will watch over her.

And when she wakes up in the morning, the sun higher in the sky than it should have been, she will have an aching head and a sense of dissatisfaction with the world to add to her general unhappiness, and in her hurry to leave her quarters lest someone notice and comment on her absence, she won’t notice that her candle is burnt down to a stub, and the fact her blanket was tucked neatly around her.


End file.
